Chapter VII: Changing Seasons

"Life is astir beneath dead Nature's snows
Spring's quickened pulse is bounding through the earth.
Lo, in the wakened heart a life-stream flows:
Old things are dead; behold a second birth."

TIME passed on. Months had slipped away since the mind of Miles Lawson had awakened to the consciousness of the past. But the recovery of his bodily powers had not kept pace with the renewal of the mental. A low fever, the natural rebound of the death-like chill, had been lying heavily upon him, completely prostrating his strength, and refining his rude manly frame into something too ethereal and shadow-like for a young mountaineer.

His brown and sinewy hands had become white and almost transparent; his cheek hollow and pale, save for the small bright spot which lighted it up, while his eyes looked prominent and lustrous as lamps. But the expression of his whole countenance and manner had as decidedly changed for the better as his health had altered for the worse: the countenance was now open, winning, and thoughtfully intelligent, instead of sullen and unhappy: the manner was gentle and deferential, instead of capricious and intolerant.

No one who knew anything of the changing signs of the moral seasons—seed-time and harvest, winter and spring—could doubt these outward evidences of the inward work of grace. That change had been going on which is described in Scripture language as the turning from darkness to light, from the power of Satan unto God. The depths of repentance had been passed through, not once only, but again and again; the sweetness of reconciliation had been known with a justly offended God through the free and full atonement offered for sinners by the Son sent by the Father: and thus delivered from the bondage of sin and Satan, the new creature in Christ Jesus was seeking to live a new life through the power of the sanctifying Spirit.

But Miles Lawson, after his many slips and wanderings, had found it good for his soul's health to linger long in the "valley of humiliation," and he found it to be such as John Bunyan describes it, "as fruitful a place as any the crows fly over."

"I have known many laboring men," says Bunyan, "that have got good estates in the valley; for indeed, it is very fruitful soil, and doth bring forth by handfuls."

A beautiful change in the outward aspect of the dale, and in the habits of dale life, had been going on during the same period. It is scarcely like the same region. True, the noble outlines remain immovable—the mountains drawing their fine forms against the sky; the lower fells crossing each other in those graceful intersecting lines which the eye so loves to follow; the valley biding with such shy and shady reserve under the glooms of the projecting crags; and the stream finding its way with its lovely curves and bends, forever humming its mountain melodies.

But everything else has changed: the coppice wood at the mouth of the glen is one sheet of varied and delicate greens; the rough leaves of the hazels are intermixed with the silver stems and small bright foliage of the birch; sycamores are shaking out their broad leaves, creased and puckered with their tight foldings in the buds, the oaks are sunning their finely-cut leaves; and the ashes, last to come and first to go, are waving their sprays in the breeze; while the larches have long ago hung out their light green tassels, and are now creeping up the sides of the mountain with pointed crests, and in close array.

All color has changed, saving the dull dark hues of the time-worn pines, and the grand and sombre masses of the ancestral yews: what is the short summer of the dales to them? It may be a fleeting joy for the ephemeral foliage around them. It may make a holiday for the golden brooms, and the hedges of snowy thorn, and the festal plumes of the bird cherry. It may cause a flutter of excitement in the sensitive sprays of the aspen, and make the green moss-beds first all silvery with snowdrops, then all golden with nodding daffodils and starry primroses, and again all blue with bell-hung hyacinths, and pearly with the shy wood anemone. But to them—to these dignified sires of vegetable life, what is the fleeting influence of season? Hoary winter, song-resounding spring, festal summer, golden autumn—these can scarcely impart an added furrow, or wreathe their stately brows with any passing glory.

Everything else, however, seems young and jubilant. Look at the lambs upon the springy turf of the fells. They are playing like kittens. No, better than that they are getting up regular games of their own. There is system in that fun of theirs. That fat, saucy fellow, white as snow, save for his black nose and his legs, which seem to dance all the lighter for their little black worsted stockings—he is evidently master of the revels. He marshals his band on the top of that old gray rock that bares its forehead from amidst the elastic turf on the mountainside. There are some of the young rebels who are determined to scale the height from beneath in a wholly unauthorized way. That will never do; the leader and his lambs line the ramparts, and butt and push at every black nose that aspires upwards. The aspirants are beaten back; and then down comes the whole garrison, leaping, bounding up in the air "all fours" at once; and sweeping away the opposing force, the whole lamb community careers away in one troop down the green slope of the fell.

This is thought to be rather too wild work by those respectable old ewes, who, in their staid sobriety, have altogether forgotten the days of their youth. They lift their plain and anxious countenances from cropping the scented turf, and, with mouths full of thyme and heath, utter a few warning remonstrances, which only seem to stimulate the wild frolics of the young folks. Surely they don't mean to send that black, perfectly black lamb "to Coventry"? The insolent little rogues, it really looks so. They won't let him join in the fun, forgetting their own legs and noses: for they are but quadroons themselves, at the best: and so he retires to the genial society of his mother, in whose eyes he seems to be white and comely as a lily. Really, it is rather trying to think that these charming lambs will grow up into those ungainly and uninteresting old sheep.

Alice's garden is brilliant with flowers. "'Tis but a common cottage garden," you will say: no exotics, no rare and delicate plants. But here are England's dear old favorites, her best and choicest flowers. What can surpass those regal "cabbage roses," so round and so full, or those moss rose-buds growing under the lee of the white porch? Then there are "sweet-williams," deep red and variegated, very stiff and very handsome in their way: there are showy orange-colored lilies and queenly white ones: there are purple columbines, and great red peonies, and tall "Jacob's ladders," and grave "Solomon's seals": there are graceful sweet peas clinging for support to anything they can reach; and a little bed of spicy pinks, scenting the air like an island of the eastern seas. The beds are all edged either with box, or with double red and white daisies, or with the little fragile "witch's thimbles," chiming their small blue and white bells to every passing breeze.

But there is something going on under the broad shadow of the yew trees. On the smooth grass-plot which spreads before Alice's rustic seat, stands the long kitchen table, which must have been moved out of doors for festal purposes, because it is covered with a clean white table-cloth, and a number of chairs are placed round it. Plates of piled-up bread and butter, cut and buttered currant "wigs," a massive-looking cake, whose consistency is very much that of cold "figgy pudding," a beautiful dish of ripe strawberries, dressed out with leaves worthy of a ducal coronet *, and another dish of cherries from off the walls of the house, furnish the entertainment. There is a tea-tray also; and Mrs. Lawson's dozen of little old-fashioned silver teaspoons have been taken out of the old oak chest and rubbed up for the occasion.

* The strawberry-leaf is the ducal symbol, and is placed on the
coronet.

But who are the guests? The widow is there, sitting up in her chair in considerable state as hostess; Alice, in simple gala costume, is flitting about with a brilliant flush of pleased expectation on her artless countenance; Mat is gone in to rub up his merry face until it shines like a rosy-cheeked apple, to comb his light hair down over his sun-burnt forehead, and to put on his best red waistcoat, with blue glass buttons, and his bright green neck-tie. Chance and Laddie have made no such distinguished toilette, but they are particularly on the alert, barking little gala salvos, and pricking their ears at every sound.

There is a sound now in the distance—a slow rumble of wheels in the direction of Green Gap. The dogs are violently excited by this, because a friend, a great buff sheep dog, with an enormous white plumy tail, always comes in company with the rumbling "shandry" * from Scarf Beck Farm. They are right in their apprehensions.

Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, a particularly comfortable, not to say jolly-looking couple, are sitting up in the high-backed seat, with Bella between them, and the young Hartley brothers are walking in front. This is evidently a state visit; tea out of doors at half-past three o'clock, and supper looming in the background at seven.

* The "travelling carriage" of the country—half-cart, half-gig.

We must have a photograph of Bella Hartley; for she is called by many, the Queen of the Dales. She is taller by half-a-head than young Alice Lawson, and of a far more noble figure and carriage. Her features are finely-cut; and her head, with its bountiful profusion of bright brown hair, sits with remarkable grace on her long neck and finely sloping shoulders. Her dress is a simple light print, with a colored ribbon round her throat.

Ah! there is a little story attached to that rather faded ribbon, and some amount of sentiment; or else it would not have been selected for this especial occasion. She has a grave, thoughtful, perhaps anxious look; but it has not been always there. Her face was as sparkling as her own Scarf Beck, until some twelve months ago, when, after a long and painful talk with Miles Lawson, that care-worn expression took up its settled abode on her lofty brow, and in her deep shadowy eyes.

On that summer evening, a year ago, she had said to him, "No, Miles, you must give me back my promise; for I will never be the wife of a man that I cannot trust out of my sight for half-an-hour."

And so they parted—he to grow more thoughtless and reckless than ever, because he held himself to be an injured man; she to watch over him from a distance with the folded hands of prayer, and to weep and mourn in secret; while she carried before her little mountain world a brow so calm, and a manner so serene and collected, that folks said she was unfeeling, fickle, and heartless.

Other young farmers, and one or two land or mine agents, had paid their court in the meantime; but no one had been even listened to. And all the while that old faded ribbon had been lying carefully folded up in her drawer.

What, then, can have brought about this remarkable visit? It is a diplomatic arrangement between the "heads of houses." First of all, Alice made a friendly call on Bella, taking with her a nosegay of spice pinks and sweet-williams, and cursorily mentioning Miles' name some dozen times, always in a highly favorable manner. This she considered to be particularly skilful, and even very deep.

Then the eldest Hartley youth called to see Miles in return, and carried home the news that "he was wasted to an atomy, and looked as quiet like as schoolmaster himself." This report produced an extraordinary sensation at Scarf Beck Farm; and the impression was followed up by a ceremonious visit from old Geordie Garthwaite, with the present of a fat little black pig from the widow Lawson to Mrs. Hartley, which was graciously accepted, the faithful feudal emissary taking occasion to drop sundry laudatory remarks about "young master's talk being now as good as any sermon," and "if he went on much longer of that fashion, he was frightened of seeing him soon a saint in heaven; for he was right away too good for this evil world." Bella ran off to her little chamber when she heard this, and did not appear again that day.

Next came Old Ann, with an offering of a favorite guinea-hen for Miss Bell, remarking "as how 'twas young master that sent it, though he wasn't so bold as to show his face in it." This was spoken in a very audible voice just under Bella's window. But of course the guinea-hen walked and flew home again as soon as the hour came for sounding that strange muezzin cry from the top of the round chimney, "Come back, come back."

Then, at last, Mrs. Hartley ordered the shandry, and drove over to The Yews to report the loss of the sentimental fowl. She was received with extraordinary alacrity, and was engaged with Mrs. Lawson in the old oak parlor, with closed doors, for a mysteriously long time. The result of this interview was an announcement that the whole Hartley family were coming over to tea and supper on the afternoon which has been previously introduced.

Poor Miles evidently has not the strength or the courage to encounter the excitements of this grand arrival. He is sitting in the deep shadow of the pointed porch, almost justifying by his emaciated appearance and changed expression of countenance, the eulogium and the fear expressed by his old retainer, Geordie Garthwaite. He waits until Bella Hartley passes by, and then nervously calls her by name; she stops and kindly holds out her hand, "Miles, how ill you look; how changed you are!"

"God grant I may be changed indeed, Bella, for 'twas high time; and the good of his long-suffering is, that it leads to repentance."

The tears were in her eyes in a moment, but the smile that shone through that summer shower was a very rainbow of beauty.

"There are too many folks about for us to have a talk now, Bella; but will you walk with me down to the alder shade by the beck after tea, and give me your arm to help me on? For I haven't got the strength in me to walk so far without it."

"Yes; and I will give it to you now in face of them all," said she, her face crimsoning like a sun-rise.

He took her arm, and she led his tottering steps over to the group beneath the yew tree. They all rose to receive them with silent respect and sympathy. Mrs. Hartley gave him her seat on the rustic bench; but he said, "Bella must be alongside o' me, if you please; for now that I have found out the strength that there is in her arm, I shall want it to lean upon for the rest of my life."

Old Geordie and Old Ann were anxiously watching the family proceedings from the gate leading into the farm-yard; and they ever after maintained that a great scene hereupon ensued, "that all women-folk greeted, and all men-folk laughed, and clapped their hands."

The wicket gate had opened just before this denouement, and the schoolmaster had dropped into the festal group. Perhaps a close observer might have perceived that some other guest was expected, from the flutter in Alice's manner, and her rather distracted attentions to her friends. How ever that may be, now that Mark Wilson has taken the empty seat, her eye never wanders towards the wicket gate any more. Mark had come over by invitation from his present place of tarrying, the hamlet in the neighboring valley, in order to be present at what was fully expected to be a family betrothal; that is, if things worked well. And that they had answered expectations, he perceived at a glance.

"Why, Miles, thou art looking a stronger and a heartier man already, now that thy mind is at rest. God bless thee, Bella Hartley, for being willing to trust one who has put his trust in Christ."

Tea over, Mat conducted the young Hartley's round the farm, as usual, to see the stock. Mr. and Mrs. Hartley sat in the porch with the widow Lawson. Bella redeemed her promise to lend her strong arm to Miles as they slowly walked down to the alder shade, that made a bower beside the brook, and there they communed of the painful past, of the happy present, and of the promised future. Truly did they take sweet counsel together, because their hope was in the Lord their God; and this was the spirit of their prayerful resolve, "As for me, and my house, we will serve the Lord."

What has become of the schoolmaster? And Alice, she is missing too. Mark had said to her after tea, "You took my arm, once before, Alice—will you take it again now?" She did not refuse; and they have walked on beside the brook altogether forgetting that it was a "babbler."

When they had all returned from their several walks, Mark Wilson went up to the widow's rocking chair, and bending down, said, in a low voice, "Mother, dost thou think thou hast two blessings to bestow? Could'st thou bless a new son as well as a new daughter?"

"Bless the good lads; and bless the dear maidens!" was the ready reply. "But, Mark, I can tell thee I am giving thee what I can ill afford."

"Your easy chair is never to move from where it now stands; we have quite fixed that," whispered Bella.

"These are the children of my old age," said the widow, laying her shaking hands on the head of Mark Wilson and Bella Hartley. "As to Alice there, she has always been my one pet lamb. Mat is a good lad, and I have faith to believe he will be a staff to my failing strength. And as to thee, Miles, my eldest born, what shall I say but that, 'It was meet we should make merry, and be glad; for this my son was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'"